I was innocently nibbling a cream cracker, wondering when things were going to start getting exciting around here when Mom called me to her bedroom. Yes, her BEDROOM. And maybe that isn’t such a big deal in other people’s homes. But it is in mine.
When I was six years old [and my elder sister, Kathryn, was twelve], we fought about the possession of a ragdoll. See, it was a SPECIAL ragdoll that Dad won at the fair the night before and Kathryn insisted that it was hers because she was “Daddy’s favourite.” Of course, I got SUPER mad and CHARGED… [which was possibly not the wisest course of action]
Before I knew it, I had a clump of Kathryn’s hair in my hand and a LOT of blood trickling down my face [to this date, I don’t know WHOSE blood that was]. Mom came rushing down the hall and dragged us away from each other, muttering the whole time about how disappointed she was in our behaviour.
Anyway, after that incident [and the many before it], Mom declared her bedroom a no-kid zone, so that there’d be at least ONE place in the whole house where she need not fear running into two children who were ripping each other’s throats out.
So, obviously, I was feeling a bit nervous as I walked up the stairs to Mom and Dad’s master bedroom. Pushing open the thick, wooden door, I marvelled at how much the room had changed since I last stepped into it, which was probably a good five years ago. Instead of flaming red paint, the room was coated in a milky blue wallpaper. The bed was wrapped in a turquoise cover and Mom was sprawled on it, leafing through a magazine.
‘Tay,’ Mom gestured to one of the indigo couches that surrounded their balcony. Seating myself, I waited for her to continue what was sure to be a life-changing speech. ‘I just wanted to let you know that your Cousin Brandy is coming to stay. I know she isn’t your favourite person, but, please, try to be nice.’
DeDe, you must be wondering what was so important about this declaration that Mom actually called me to her BEDROOM to deliver it. But that’s because you don’t KNOW Cousin Brandy. And that’s a GOOD thing, because, the way I see it, the less one knows about Brandy, the better.
The truth is, I’m not even sure about how we’re related. I just know that she comes over a few times a year and I spent the next two or three months recovering from her visit.
I should probably stop biasing your opinion on her, DeDe, but she just gets me SO worked up. THINKING about her sets me in a bad mood.
Dad’s calling. He wants some… roasted raspberries with spicy CURRY???? Oh, Gawd, PLEASE let me have heard wrong!!